Magic and Mysteries
by TheAlpacaIllusionist
Summary: There came a point in every Gryffindor student's life where they stopped and wondered, "Why is there a Slytherin at our table?" Sherlock Holmes just liked to confuse people. Of course, it became easier to confuse people when a trouble magnet like Harry James Potter started attending school. Things just got a lot more interesting for Sherlock. Oh, and John, too.
1. Prologue

**Magic and Mysteries: A Potterlock Story**

By TheAlpacaIllusionist

 **~Prologue~**

"Look, John," Sherlock said, indicating a young boy perhaps a few years younger than them. "What can you tell me about him?"

The boy was small with messy black hair that settled over his head in a way that could be reminiscent of any other child that age. He wore round glasses and an oversized shirt that was clearly not bought with him in mind.

"Well?" Sherlock pushed.

"He's definitely got an older sibling," his companion, John, began. He nodded to himself and continued, "Yeah, because you can tell by his clothes which are obviously a lot bigger than him. He is, um, quiet . . . uh . . . his shoes are well worn. So he comes from a poor family then." John trailed off and Sherlock nodded.

"Enlightening, but completely wrong."

"I can't say I'm surprised," John muttered, rearranging his position on the railing which he and his friend were leaning on. Sherlock, dressed smartly in dark trousers and a violet shirt, glanced down, not at all surprised that he was beginning to tower over his short companion.

"Neither can I. Let's start at the beginning. He's got no older sibling. His family is over there." Sherlock nodded across the reptile house to where a rotund man, a horse resembling woman and two young boys stood admiring one of the exhibits habitants. "They are related, but not as closely as you assumed. Cousins. The fat boy there is his cousin, the two adults are his aunt and uncle. The other boy? Just a friend, of course. The boy, himself, is malnourished—not treated well. Extreme favouritism—the parents never wanted to take the boy in but it was their obligation and one they manage to fulfill, if barely. He dresses as he does because of it. His family is not poor—in fact, I'd say they believe themselves to be quite respectable, therefore he wears whatever they feel kind enough to give. No money is spent on him."

"In other words, I didn't get anything right."

Sherlock turned his attention away from the boy standing at the glass exhibit of a large snake and eyed John, his friend of two years, going on three.

"No, but I suspect anyone would have thought as much. You all fail to truly _observe_."

John didn't respond but rolled his eyes and looked back to the other people occupying the reptile house. He had invited Sherlock down to his end of the country for a week and Sherlock had obliged with permission from his parents who, apparently, were overjoyed that their little boy was making friends. Mycroft had sarcastically shared the same sentiment.

Today, after a suggestion from his mother, John had dragged Sherlock to the zoo where they had eventually sought refuge from a sudden downpour of rain in the reptile house. They decided to people watch, Sherlock testing John on his deductive skills only to have Sherlock tell him that he was completely wrong and correct him.

Thinking about this, John frowned at the thought of the boy they had just deduced. It was sad, not that Sherlock would be inclined to agree with him. He'd probably just scoff and say that John was being too sentimental again.

When John looked back at the raven-haired boy, however, he swore he was witnessing the strangest thing. The boy was _talking_ to the snake. Not only this, but the snake was reacting to his words.

"Sherlock, look!"

The Holmes boy looked over to where he knew that John was mentally gesturing. He stared for a few moments before his attention moved on to the younger boy's family. The cousin had noticed the awakening of the snake and barrelled over, pushing the smaller boy to the ground. Then, the fatter boy's sausage fingers were pressed against the glass. Sherlock's eyes went back to the earlier deduced boy and he noted the hateful expression he wore. That was when all hell broke loose.

The glass disappeared and the oversized tween fell forward into the exhibit, the water splashing up around him. This gave the snake inside said exhibit the perfect means to escape its glass prison. As its oversized body fell to the floor, it turned to the black haired boy who was still on the ground and hissed.

John looked over to see if Sherlock was noticing what he was only to realize his friend was approaching the boy on the ground, completely ignoring the fact that the once safe-behind-glass snake was now slithering across the floor.

"Sherlock!" John went to go after him before noticing that the once vanished glass had reappeared and the boy that had fallen into the snake's exhibit was now stuck there, sopping wet and fearful.

When John caught up to his friend, he was holding a hand out to the younger boy on the ground, offering him a hand.

"Um, thank you," the boy said shyly, accepting the offer and standing. He began dusting himself off, appearing completely calm over what had just occurred.

"Do you believe in magic, Harry?" Sherlock asked.

"Harry?" John questioned, thoughts immediately jumping to his sister, Harriet.

"I-uh, what? Excuse me, but how did you know my name was Harry?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain before he was interrupted by a rapidly approaching older gentleman whose face, as round as his middle, was red and puffy.

"You, boy! What did we say about the funny business?" Sherlock stared at the man for a moment, his gaze hard and calculating, before looking over at John who was still extremely confused as to what had just happened.

"Come along, John." Sherlock turned away, but not before winking at the boy named Harry. He didn't look back after that, not even to ensure that John was following.

Moments later, they were outside and the sun was shining, the wet ground being the only sign that it had rained.

John turned on his friend almost as soon as he was sure that they were out of earshot.

"What the hell was that? How did you know his name was Harry? Don't go revealing us to muggles!"

"Do you observe nothing? Those muggles already know, at least, his aunt and uncle do. Little Harry is a wizard." John whose mouth was open as he was about to respond shut it and he stared back at Sherlock, clearly not too impressed with his words.

"Okay, that is self explanatory, but what about the fact that you just happened to know his name was Harry?" Sherlock smirked at this.

"Harry Potter, to be exact." John sputtered, opening his mouth to speak, before closing it repeatedly until he just gave up. "It was the scar, John, the scar! How many wizarding children do you know who fit the description of the Boy-Who-Lived and at the same time are being raised by muggles and have lightning shaped scars on their foreheads? Not many, leading to the only option that this boy is _the_ Harry Potter. Any wizard could have figured that out."

"Sherlock, you're forgetting that I'm a wizard and I didn't figure it out."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began walking again. "I meant any wizard that observes, John."

Sighing, John made to continue their conversation before dropping it completely and scurrying after the taller boy. Spending so much time with Sherlock had taught John that most, if not all the time, it was best not to argue with him. Right now really wasn't an exception.

 **XxXxXxXxX**

 _Hello there! I hope you enjoyed this Potterlock prologue. This story will (hopefully) go through each of the seven books/movies._

 _A note with regards to how I'll be writing this: any scenes that_ are _the same as the books/movies will not be copied word for word. They will either be written from memory or completely different. This will hopefully keep it interesting for you folks._

 _Until next time!_


	2. Chapter 1

_Thank you so much to all my reviewers and my various favourite-ers and followers. Hopefully a few of your questions will be answered in this first chapter. This chapter will also give you a general idea of what direction this fic might be going in._

 _To all those who celebrate it, Merry Christmas, as I doubt I'll update again before December 25th. To everyone else, Happy Holidays and a Happy New Year, as well!_

 **~Chapter 1: The Beginnings of an Interesting Year~**

John wished his mother and his reluctant sister good bye in the muggle portion of King's Cross. Harry hated going onto the wizarding platform so John just found it easier to say good bye outside before meeting up with Sherlock on the train.

"Have a safe year, John. Send lots of letters, too." His mother hugged him closely. "And tell Sherlock we said hello." Smiling, his mother ushered him onto the platform with his trolley. John jogged, a grin on his face when he remembered two years ago and his first run through the wall. That had been when he still had his limp, before he had met Sherlock and all of his rude, obnoxious glory.

On the other side of the barrier, a scarlet train engine blew steam and whistled. People were milling about and many, mostly parents, were sharing tearful good-byes and helping their children, mainly the younger years, drag luggage and animal cages onto the train.

"Good morning, John." John reached for his heart and turned around to see Sherlock standing behind him, hands clasped behind his back, a ball of fuzz on his shoulders.

"Hullo, Sherlock. I thought you'd already be on the train."

"I was investigating some things." John rose an eyebrow at this despite knowing that he should not have been surprised. Still, he at least expected Sherlock to expand a little bit on what it was that he was 'investigating'. When he didn't and instead began walking towards the train, John followed him with a small roll of his eyes.

The train had yet to become packed so this gave him and John plenty of choice when it came to compartment selection, however, Sherlock went for the compartment he had been going to for the past two years — the one right near the end. Apparently he liked it there because people were less inclined to bother him there.

Once seated in the usual compartment, John relaxed, stretching his already stiff muscles. Sherlock grabbed the fluff ball off his shoulder and sat it on his lap.

"How was the rest of your summer, Sherlock?" John waited for an answer, but the noticed that Sherlock was in his 'mind palace' again and so all hope of contacting him was lost. With that knowledge in mind, John sat further into his seat, revelling in its homey comfort.

It was not long, however, before their silent company was interrupted.

"Um, excuse me?" John looked at the entrance of the compartment and his jaw dropped. It was the boy from July that he and Sherlock had deduced—the one whose name Sherlock had said was Harry Potter. Could he have actually been _correct_?

John swallowed any words that might have made their way to the surface and smiled instead. He must have been so scared if he really had been raised by muggles like Sherlock had said. John knew that he had been terrified when he had first boarded the train two years ago, knowing that everyone on it was a stranger.

"Yes?" John asked, his words accompanied by an encouraging smile.

"Is it alright if my friend and I sit here? Everywhere else is full . . ." John caught a peak of the red head standing just outside the compartment with Harry. He looked like a Weasley . . . hadn't the twins said that they had a younger brother starting Hogwarts this year? Well, wasn't this just a train ride full of coincidences.

John then looked at Sherlock who was still cut off from the real world before nodding. Harry and the younger (possible) Weasley entered the compartment, sitting opposite each other.

"My name is Harry and this is Ron." Harry sat next to John while Ron sat next to Sherlock, frowning at him before realization seemed to dawn on his face. The same realization seemed to have hit Harry as well, not that John was surprised. In fact, he felt rather frustrated that they both seemed to know Sherlock, but not him.

"Y-You!" Harry exclaimed, pointing at John's friend. Sherlock didn't look up, let alone register that any words had been spoken to him.

"You know him, Harry? You know Sherlock?" his orange haired companion started. John's eyebrows rose. He _did_ know Sherlock. A Weasley for sure, then. Now if he could only wrack his brains for what the twins said his name was.

"He . . . he was there that day at the zoo when I made the glass disappear. You asked me if I believed in magic!" Harry recalled, now addressing the tall boy beside Ron.

"I'm glad to know that I'm memorable." Sherlock had opened his eyes and was looking between the three people in his compartment. His eyes settled on Ron. "And hello Ronald. How was your summer?"

"You know him, too, Ron?!" John looked between the other three people in the compartment feeling oddly left out of the conversation. Why did everyone here know each other, but him?

"Yeah. He's friends with Fred and George . . . at least they do a lot of 'business' together. He helps them out with pranks and they help with his crazy experiments."

"Uh, hello? I'm still here," John said, waving at them.

"Yes, yes, John, we know. Everyone this is John Watson. I'm Sherlock Holmes. You're Ron Weasley, and you're Harry Potter. Now everyone knows each other. Isn't that just fantastic?" John sighed in defeat, his shoulders sagging under his friend's lack of tact.

"Um, is that a squirrel, Sherlock?" Ron asked, his eyes refusing to leave the ball of fluff on Sherlock's legs.

"An eastern grey squirrel, or Sciurus carolinensis if you prefer."

"You do know that you can't have a squirrel at Hogwarts, right?" Ron said, and John just shook his head, remembering this conversation when he'd had it. Sherlock was going to argue his rights to bring a squirrel with him to school down to his last breath.

"They are in the same Order as rats, therefore related, if more or less distantly." As if to prove her right to be there, the squirrel scurried up over Sherlock's shoulder before settling around his neck.

"What's its name?" Harry asked, curious about the tame rodent in front of him.

"Her name is Molly. And no Ron, I did not name her with your mother in mind." Ron, whose face had gone red with the mention of the squirrel's name immediately calmed down. "Now if you don't mind, please leave me alone." Sherlock disappeared into his mind palace again.

"Sorry about him," John said earnestly. "He's always like that, but you get used to it after a while. Or not. It depends, really."

"I don't know how Fred and George put up with him. He was over at our house a lot during the summer. And then Percy kept talking to his brother, Mycroft, about working at the Ministry every time he showed up to apparate him home. Right in front of Dad, too."

Harry looked thoroughly confused so John took it upon himself to help Ron explain.

"Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft, holds a minor position at the Ministry of Magic."

This statement caused Sherlock to rejoin the conversation, just moments after he had ordered everyone in the compartment to leave him alone. "Oh _please_. Mycroft is no minor member of the Ministry. He practically _runs_ it. Must I mention the number of times that nitwit Fudge has called on him for political advice?"

"Don't insult the Minister, Sherlock," John said seriously, staring at the curly haired youth.

"You cannot deny me the right to speak the truth, John."

The rest of the train ride went fairly well if one didn't count the run in with the trolley lady where Sherlock, in a rather untactful way, pointed out that the only reason Ron resigned to the fact that he had a sandwich (that he most definitely did not like) was because his family was poor and, therefore, could not afford to spend money on every little want, in this case, candy. This ended with Ron going red in the ears and John hitting Sherlock on the head with his potions book.

It was best not to mention that this was followed shortly by the entrance of a first year girl searching for a lost toad. Sherlock promptly insulted her by saying she was undoubtedly a snobby know-it-all and she had best keep her hand out of the air — there were several teachers who didn't take well to teaching such pompous students. Before she could even consider leaving the apartment, Sherlock had his wand out and muttered something under his breath. Something quite toad-like hit the window only seconds later.

She retrieved the toad and then quickly left the compartment, but at this point, the boys didn't quite care because she had already made fun of Ron's weak attempts at a spell which was supposed to turn his rat yellow. John didn't even bother to tell him Sherlock was just a pot calling the kettle black. _Snobby know-it-all_.

However, it was when a platinum blonde boy and two almost identical gargoyles appeared that their ride became interesting.

"Word on the train is that Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts." He stared right at Harry, steely grey eyes seeing little else. Harry shifted uncomfortably and glanced across the compartment at Ron who was clearly trying to convey something with his eyes. Only when this happened did Malfoy look at the others in sitting around Harry.

His eyes went first to Ron. "Red hair and hand-me-down robes? You must be a Weasley." He sneered. "My father has told me all about your family. They have more kids than they can afford." His eyes went to John next. "And you. Never seen you around before. You must be a Mudblood." His sneer deepened, meanwhile Harry swore he was the only one who saw Sherlock's fists clench.

"And you must be a Malfoy," Sherlock said crisply. John cringed as he sensed a deduction of someone's whole life coming. "So, your father asked that you make connections with the famous Boy-Who-Lived while distancing yourself from any who might poison the precious Malfoy line. Muggleborns and supposed blood traitors, mainly. I must say, gits like you are simply overflowing with original ideas. And how has daddy been this year, Malfoy? Too busy sucking up to the Minister to pay attention to his only son? You're trying too hard for it to be anything else." John was surprised. He expected deductions and he got . . . the beginnings of a pissing match?

"The name's Draco Malfoy," the blonde growled. "And my father told me about you. One of the genius Holmes boys. Father's always complaining about your brother and how he simply can't keep his nose out of the Minister's business."

"Well at least Mycroft does _something_ right, Daniel."

"Draco," one of the younger boy's goons corrected almost mindlessly. They left almost dejectedly after that.

By this point, the train was, according to Sherlock, nearing Hogsmeade station. Everyone changed into their robes. No one except Harry was surprised when Sherlock pulled on Slytherin robes.

"Y-You're a Slytherin?"

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock had been receiving the same question for the past two years. The members of his house were all so surprised when Sherlock ate at their table or popped up in their dorms wearing the trademark green and silver of their rival house.

"I assure you that I have no intention of killing you, Harry Potter. Slytherin I may be, I am no Death Eater." Sherlock paused for a moment before adding, "And neither was Merlin." He went back to pulling his shoes on.

"What's a Death Eater?" Harry asked.

Ron took it as his cue to explain one of the many new aspects of the Wizarding World. "They were You-Know-Who's minions. Did all his dirty work for him."

"Masqueraded in skull masks and black cloaks, too, because _apparently_ , originality means nothing to evil megalomaniacs." Everyone gave Sherlock a look, clearly not impressed with his observations.

Only a few minutes later and the train began to slow. Glancing out the window, Sherlock took note of the clear skies and the good view the First Years would have of Hogwarts as they approached over the lake. He could vaguely recall his own boat ride. A cloudy night, unfortunately, and just as they'd made it halfway across the rolling waves, a heavy mist had begun to fall and by the time they'd arrived at the underground cave docks, they'd been soggy and miserable, if still mostly excited. The only reason he'd bother remembering the stupid trip at all was because it was part of the day that he'd met John for the first time.

"We'll see you guys at the feast, then," John said, giving both new students a reassuring grin before he scurried after Sherlock who was already making his way to the thestral drawn carriages, Molly the squirrel balancing atop his head.

While Harry and Ron shared a look, John and Sherlock settled themselves in their carriage. No one bothered to try and share the cart with them. Once spending a year at Hogwarts, everyone knew that the Holmes brothers were people to be avoided at any and all costs, unless you were crazy like John or that girl that had always silently followed Mycroft around.

"So, what'd you think of them, Sherlock?"

When the taller boy didn't respond, John wondered why he had been expecting an answer when it was clear that Sherlock had submerged himself in his mind palace, probably to document any observations he had made about the two boys they had come to know during the train ride.

Molly the squirrel left Sherlock's mop of hair and made her way to John, one of the only other students to have gained her approval, where she proceeded to curl up under his cloak, her tail tickling her own nose.

Sherlock suddenly opened his eyes.

"John, I think school might finally be interesting." And in that moment, John realized that he had never been more scared in his life.

XxXxXxXxX

The Great Hall was dressed up as it always was for the start of the year feast. Floating candles, a starry sky, golden plates and excited chatter. The chatter would die down once classes had started and students got flooded with unwanted school work. The candles would disappear to be replaced with owls flying in with morning mail or pumpkins or wreathes or whatever the next holiday called for. It was all very repetitive, Sherlock found.

While John approached the Gryffindor table, Sherlock sat down for the one meal that he would suffer through at the Slytherin table. It was only slightly less unbearable now that Mycroft had up and graduated, though his influence on the house still remained with those that had been there during his reign. He would have been sitting with John, but last year, both Snape and McGonagall had thrown the biggest hissy fits, going on about how he was setting a bad example for other students. While they had tried during his first year to get him to sit with his classmates, they finally relented.

"You _sit_ with the _Slytherins_ for the _Opening Feast_ ," McGonagall hissed. "Otherwise, every meal you eat afterwards away from them will have twenty points deducted. Snape and I have agreed to this." Sherlock snorted, but after much convincing from John, he finally relented.

Meanwhile, Molly was hiding beneath his cloak, soaking up his warmth while they waited.

Oh look, Marcus Flint was harassing a few second-year Hufflepuffs. And there is Cedric Diggory, Hufflepuff's up and coming knight in shining armour, to save the day. Ooh, and now Professor Sprout is getting involved. And Slytherin loses its first few points of the year. Looks like Flint gets his first detention, too, to continue his streak from last year.

Sherlock sighed. How dull.

McGonagall, one of the many professors that Sherlock had a love-hate relationship with, had gone to presumably get the first years so that they could be sorted. And when she led them in, their gob-smacked faces were of no surprise to him. Children, even those from magical families were always so impressed with the Great Hall. It was true that Sherlock himself had been impressed, but for different reasons. Something along the lines of how every student agreed to voluntary segregation and the like. Whoever had originally designed the ways of the sorting had been smart.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in on Harry and Ron, both walking side by side down the narrow gap between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. A few rows behind them was Donald Malfoy. Then the snobby muggleborn from the train. A set of twins. A chubby brunette. Two lumbering trolls.

The Sorting Hat was placed on the stool and in seconds, it opened up one of its two big creases and began to sing a jolly tune, a poem, obviously. It was much of what had been in previous years; it contained ample detail on the individual houses and the traits they valued and placed some focus on learning and then it was complete.

Then the first name was called, an Abbot, Hannah. Hufflepuff, of course. The way she looked at her peers, the way she shrank in on herself, the way she leaned in to the warmth of another soon-to-be badger and revelled in their already growing comradery. Susan Bones, another Hufflepuff.

When he began to grow tired of correctly deducing who would get sorted where, Sherlock remembered his own Sorting, albeit rather reluctantly. Mycroft had been in the audience and he, much like the rest of the students aware of Mycroft's influence, waited with baited breath as the Hat debated.

 _Another Holmes boy. Well. What a fascinating mind you have, Mr Holmes._

" _Fascinating? Organized, I think, is what you mean. Just because you are normally forced to make sense of the boring minds of snivelling eleven-year-old brats . . ."_

 _With quite a mouth, too. Hufflepuff is obviously not the place for you._

" _And why not?"_

 _Hufflepuff? You think you would do well there?_

" _I'll do well no matter where you put me. I hear Hufflepuff's are particularly good finders. I like finding things."_

The Sorting Hat laughed. _A superficial trait like that is not enough to define your years here, Mr Holmes. Perhaps you would do better in Slytherin or Ravenclaw. After all, you appear to have a quick wit, a yearning for answers, the ambition to succeed._

" _Slytherin. Ugh, what a dull house. Surely you can put me somewhere else. Even Gryffindor would do. I'd rather put up with those bumbling idiots than the posh and prissy folks that my brother surrounds himself with."_

 _While I sense the urge to protect and be brave, those are not your strongest and most defining traits._

" _So, Mycroft lied when he said I could choose my own House, then."_ Sherlock adjusted himself on the stool, putting his hand thoughtfully beneath his chin.

 _You have not chosen anything, yet, boy. Merely suggested._

" _So you will put me in Hufflepuff?"_

 _Had you actually desired that I put you in Hufflepuff, I would have considered your wishes, however this is an idiotic time to be conducting an experiment regarding how I work. I should put you into Slytherin. You'd do well there, like your brother. He has done so well, and he hasn't even graduated yet. He's well on his way to becoming a person to be reckoned with._

Sherlock snorted. _"Have you met Mycroft? He is not becoming a person to be reckoned with. He already is. He has the teachers in his pocket already and Dumbledore is too scared of a possible rival in control to bother to do anything against him."_

 _Yes, I have met your brother. I sorted him, remember? Now, back on topic. It's tough. Slytherin or Ravenclaw . . . hm._

" _So Hufflepuff and Gryffindor are out? A pity. Just put me in Ravenclaw and be done with it."_

 _So hasty. Your brother was not half as difficult. Stern, determined, ambitious and smart. You on the other hand . . . so lost in the world. Your parents adore you, but you simply ignore their affections. You want to be the best. You want to solve things, be useful. You're manipulative and use whatever you can as a resource. You don't crave knowledge for knowledge's sake. You want it as a means to an end._

" _You're wrong, of course. Knowledge is power."_ At those words, Sherlock swore he felt the hat smile.

 _Well, I don't need to ask you to know that you do not know that the earth revolves around the sun. Any Ravenclaw I know would simply break down if they realized one of their own was oblivious to the answer. Before you talk back, I think I know what House you belong in. Without any doubt, you belong in_ SLYTHERIN!

Sherlock remembered McGonagall lifting the hat up off his head and wanting nothing more than to force it back down over his eyes and convince the damned thing that it had no idea what the hell it was doing. Slytherin? _Slytherin?_ He had sat on the stool for a mere second, a look of shock on his face before the sound of applause caused him to shut his mouth and put a blank expression on his face. He walked off the raised platform and down to the Slytherin table, ignoring the longing look of the boy he'd met of the train and instead choosing to make brief eye contact with his brother who merely gave him a slight inclination of the head.

"Potter, Harry!" Sherlock looked up, shaken from his trip down memory lane. The whole hall was suddenly filled with the silence of expectation and excitement. Harry Potter. _Gryffindor_ , he thought, looking over what he knew of the boy. _A Gryffindor to the core, just like John._

Harry, the poor trembling boy, sat upon the stool. The Sorting Hat had positioned itself in its slouching, thoughtful position indicating that some kind of serious conversation was going on. Stupid Hat was probably doing what it had done when it had sorted him; act like a difficult, non-negotiable piece of old fabric.

"GRYFFINDOR!" The shout from the mouth of the Sorting Hat broke the silence that had fallen upon the Great Hall after the third consecutive minute of indecision.

The Hall broke out into the loudest applause that Sherlock had heard in his three years at school. The Weasley twins were probably the showiest with their repetitive chants and cheers.

Once the Hall managed to calm down, the Sorting continued. Derek Malfoy and his hobgoblins, unfortunately, became Slytherins. Weasley followed family tradition and became a new Gryffindor. The snob from earlier, he noticed, had been sorted into Gryffindor as well when he hadn't been paying attention. Hm.

The meal itself was the usual affair. Rich sauces, tender meats, fresh bread and steaming veggies, all cooked to the utmost perfection. This feast was one with the widest selection of foods. Not much of it appealed to Sherlock, though after a very long and very pointed look from John from across the Hall, Sherlock relented and placed a small spoonful of mashed potatoes and a few slices of roast beef onto his plate. He skipped the gravy and several of the other sauces and settled with picking at both foods with a golden fork.

Dessert followed with much the same grandeur. Piles of high calorie foods lined the tables. Cakes, pasties, cookies and candies. Ice cream, crème brulee, doughnuts and fruit crisps. All of it in excess. After accidentally making eyes contact with John again, Sherlock placed a small helping of nearby apple crisp onto his plate and found it in himself to actually somewhat enjoy it.

Then, before anyone could blink, the feast was over. It was now time to suffer through the headmaster's usual speech. And, for the most part, it was his regular speech. Congratulations to the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who was not Snape. The Forbidden Forest was Forbidden, and no it was not Sherlock and the Weasley twins that the headmaster was eying. There was a list of prohibited items in Filch's office. And . . .

"The third floor corridor is off limits to any and all who do not wish to die a very painful death." While this line caused a few of the new students to laugh nervously, Sherlock's gaze hardened. Such a blatant lure for all those seeking trouble. Why be so . . . obvious? Unless he wanted to bait people to go there. But who was he baiting?

Two fifth year prefects began leading the new Slytherins back to their common room, deep in the dungeons. Sherlock took a secret passage to bypass some of the trick staircases and to avoid the crowd of people heading there. He ended up being one of the first to the common room. He'd already asked the Seventh Year prefect, an old follower of Mycroft, the password, so he was able to enter unhindered by stupidity.

"Nobility." A stupid, easily guessable password in his opinion. They should have made it something like Muggle lover or television or something as unlikely as those. Then no one would be able to get inside.

The wall melted away as Sherlock entered inside the common room. As much as it disgusted him to say it, since Mycroft's days at the school, the Slytherin common room had become the nicest one in the school. Each student was given the choice of sleeping in a private room with either just themselves or with one or two roommates. These rooms each held the appropriate number of wardrobes, arm chairs and personal writing desks depending on the number of students that lived in that room. Each room also had its own fireplace. There were beautiful, darkly stained wood floors, dark green walls and matching chairs and silver threaded bed sheets. The furniture itself all shone silver.

Sherlock had chosen a room with two beds, but he was the only occupant. The other bed he used as storage for his research papers and books. He really did need all the space despite what John had said when he'd learned of Sherlock's sleeping situation.

Kneeling, he let Molly free into the room. She went immediately to the spare bed and laid down, while Sherlock changed into his pajamas.

It was silly, he thought, that Dumbledore would so obviously reveal the location of something that was hidden within the castle. If the other professor's responses to the headmaster's words told Sherlock anything, it was that they were either uncomfortable or unaware of what was going on in the school that year. Either way, he knew what he had told John earlier was true. It was bound to be an interesting year.


End file.
